


Sun Kissed

by 3musketears



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akechi Goro Needs a Hug, Background Relationships, Fluff, Found Family, Goro swears. A lot., M/M, Minor Kitagawa Yusuke/Sakamoto Ryuji, Minor Niijima Makoto/Okumura Haru, Minor Suzui Shiho/Takamaki Ann, Minor Yoshizawa Sumire/Sakura Futaba, and therapy, obligatory beach fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25993072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3musketears/pseuds/3musketears
Summary: The chance to spend more quality time with his boyfriend was what motivated Goro to grit his teeth and accept the invitation to spend not just a few hours with his rowdy friends, but approximately one hundred sixty-eight. Day and night with no breaks aside from going to the bathroom to reflectively sit on the toilet anddissociatestare at the wall for ten minutes. Or until someone knocked and asked what the hell he was doing in there.Or, in which Haru invites all of the Phantom Thieves to spend a week at her beach house, Goro overthinks himself to death, and maybe gets more than he expected out of the experience.MAJOR P5R SPOILERS!
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Okumura Haru, Akechi Goro & Yoshizawa Sumire | Yoshizawa Kasumi, Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This fic is probably very much not accurate to actual Japan. I tried, but I am a wee American and sometimes I just want the characters I like to go on an exaggerated version of my vacation that the pandemic canceled. This is extremely self-indulgent
> 
> Huge thanks to [Astra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralitte/pseuds/astralitte) for betaing this chapter and knowing a whole lot more about Japan than I do. Love you bro!
> 
> Enjoy!!!

If they all got pulled over, arrested, and interrogated, Goro would stick to the story that he did not willingly participate in their antics and that he was in fact kidnapped. He had wanted to stay inside his apartment with the air conditioning blasting, but these hooligans ripped him from the comfort of his couch with empty promises that it was for his own good. If the police asked him to back up such an absurd claim, he would throw his head back and laugh. It would come out of his mouth broken and harsh, grating like a blade being dragged against a concrete floor. Goro would lean forward as much as the handcuffs binding his hands at his back allowed him with insatiable bloodlust in his eyes. He’d smile, the sweet disarming one he used to draw people in just as much as he used it to keep them out. Close enough to see all the flawlessness of his perfect doll face– all big doe eyes and soft baby fat– but far enough away to miss the cracking plastic. “I don’t know, officer,” he’d drawl. “Would _you_ want to spend a week living on the property of a man you murdered on live television?”

Except he wouldn’t have the chance to do any of that because Niijima was driving and, therefore, their chance of being arrested was significantly lowered. As long as Okumura wasn’t offered a chance at the wheel, he was trapped in this rolling hell vessel until they arrived at the destination: a building intrinsically designed to make colonies of termites take up residence in his stomach and gnaw through his intestines. 

When he crawled like an animal– nearly tearing his khakis– over the middle row to the back seats, he did so with the intention of distancing himself as much as humanly possible. 

This plan failed immediately when Sakamoto and Kitagawa climbed back there with him and both claimed a window seat: Sakamoto to presumably press his entire face against the glass and make fish faces and Kitagawa because he was caught in the delusion that artistic inspiration could be derived from the uniformity of the streets. Goro would much prefer being shoved against a window to being squeezed until his legs lost circulation. At least, that way, he could fantasize about breaking the glass with his head and rolling out onto the busy road, flopping like a fish out of water. 

He couldn’t even stretch his legs out because Sakamoto had deemed it completely necessary to pack these obtrusive foam planks known as “boogie boards” and there wasn’t any room for them in the back with all the luggage. The culprits in that regard were Takamaki’s excess of outfits and Futaba’s entire gaming computer, stored in a metal case that was wrapped in colorful duct tape to make up for the busted latches. 

Goro couldn’t help but think he’d find the trunk more comfortable. Back there, he wouldn’t have to deal with Sakamoto chomping chips right next to his ear, crumbs and orange dust falling onto his leg. He just dry-cleaned these fucking pants too.

Goro had brought a book to read to keep himself busy on the ride and possibly throughout the whole dreadful week. As much as he revered them, the writings of Hegel would not guide him towards survival. This paperback was a divergence from his usual repertoire: tomes of philosophy and murder mysteries complex enough that they each took even him a few thousand words before accurately predicting the culprit. 

He found his current reading material on sale at the Shibuya bookstore and thought it may have some tools within its text that he could wield. But once he was in the vehicle, he found himself clutching it to his chest instead of actually reading it. There was the issue of wanting to protect the crisp white pages from smudges of orange, but that wasn’t the primary reason. Goro kept the cover hidden because he really didn’t want the people seated on either of his sides to ask why he brought a book called “How to Make Friends”.

In hindsight, he really should have just purchased a sleeve for it.

The van drove over a bump in the road and the three of them were pushed to the side, Goro’s elbow knocking into the hand that held Kitagawa’s pencil. A dark, thick charcoal line cut through the page like the slice of a blade. 

Goro didn’t know if his attempt at an apologetic face would come off as insincere or maybe even terrifying, but he had no intention of verbally apologizing for something that was clearly the fault of the imbeciles in the government who were more concerned with their own reputations than basic road maintenance. A bump like that could potentially do far worse than merely disrupt a stroke of a pencil. 

The car ride was only six minutes. Goro kept reminding himself that over and over. Then, they'd arrive at Shibuya station, get on the Yamanote line briefly, and then, he could just sit back and relax for four and a half hours on the Shinkansen bullet train where he’d actually be able to breathe without inhaling the air expelled by others. The stench of artificial cheese danced around his nose as if taunting him, _goading_ him into snatching the plastic bag from Sakamoto’s grasp and hurling it out the window.

Six minutes came and went. Niijima parked the van. Once the middle row was clear, Goro pushed the boogie boards aside and scrambled out like a wild beast freed from its cage. His thighs were granted relief from their squeezing purgatory at last. He nearly tripped over the seats as he walked out but recovered from his blunder just before Akira rounded the corner with both of their suitcases.

Akira was the only reason Goro had even agreed to spend a whole week boarding in the extra house of a man whom he murdered, on an excursion being hosted by the daughter who probably wanted to replace the traditional smashing watermelon with Goro’s head. Or take out her 24k gold barbeque grill, skewer him, and serve him with spices imported from all around the world. 

Perhaps that one was a little extreme. Despite her pastel pink sadism in the Metaverse, Goro highly doubted Okumura was a cannibal. Feasting on human flesh wasn’t her style, she was far too classy for that. If she were to actually set him on fire, it would be a total cremation—no evidence to be found except his ashes, indistinguishable from the rest. 

But Goro knew that at least one person would inquire about his whereabouts. Not even two weeks ago, the impossible happened. 

He, Akechi Goro, having never had any positive relationships with people since the passing of his mother (and even that bond came with the knowledge creeping under his skin that she died from the shame that his existence had brought), entered a committed romantic relationship. 

The confession was memorialized as if carved into stone now. Goro had rerun it in his mind on a constant loop until he could recite every last word and remember every micro-expression. But when he summoned it to the front of his mind, all of that became static. All he saw was Akira’s determined face and Akira taking his trembling gloved hands in his own and saying, “Akechi Goro, I’m in _love_ with you.”

The concept of another person even tolerating him, much less liking or loving him, was foreign, like a new exotic tenant had moved in to live among all the unsavory characters populating his heart. It was the story of Pandora’s box, except horribly mangled throughout several faulty translations to the point where all the components of the story were jumbled. He seemed to dwell within the box itself, the evils of the world dwelling within the confines of his enclosed world. Akira’s confession cracked open the lid and introduced a new force to the rowdy lot: hope. Misplaced and false as it may be, it was still hope. 

If he were to open himself up, all the horror that made up his being would still be released, but that glowing spark would come with it. With time and care, that spark might become a flame to burn down all the hollow rotted trees and make way for something newer and stronger to take their place.

“I like the branding of your suitcase,” Akira said as he passed it over to Goro. “It adds personality.” Goro genuinely could not derive whether he was being teased solely from Akira’s deadpan delivery. 

He’d taken the time to print out a large “A” sticker to slap onto his generic white suitcase just in case someone else had the same one. However, he should not have been surprised to find that their luggage was just as bold as the personalities of the thieves themselves. Even Kitagawa’s bags– limited in quality by his infamous dwindling budget– were marked by splatters of paint in more colors than were packed into a deluxe box of crayons.

Akira slid his hand into Goro’s and squeezed. Goro took his suitcase in his free hand. “If it gets stolen or lost along the way, it’ll be easier to identify,” he explained to preemptively counter any assertions that he was a dork. People who didn’t label their belongings were peons waiting to be robbed, sheep begging for the slaughter. “They wouldn’t be able to peel off that sticker if they tried.”

“Did you super glue it on?” Akira asked. Goro refrained to comment. Of course, he did. Otherwise, it would begin to peel off with time, both reducing its effectiveness and the clean, maintained look. He couldn’t trust any adhesive to hold when put up against the horrors of airplane luggage treatment.

Or so he heard. Goro hadn’t actually been on a plane before himself. For most of his life, he couldn’t afford it. Then, he was financially reliant on his abusive father and also too busy for frivolities such as vacations. Now, he failed to find any novelty in traveling to a place where he didn’t know anyone and no one understood him. If he wanted that experience, he could easily just stay put in Tokyo.

Well, maybe a trip with Akira would be nice. Just the two of them– and possibly the cat– traveling the world, finding joy in places where no one knew them and, therefore, had preconceived notions of them. And they wouldn’t need anyone anyway. They would simply exist in each other’s space, enamored by their other half. Their honeymoon, perhaps, if by some miracle Akira deemed his crazy ass to be husband material (because if anyone had the balls to, it would be Kurusu Akira). 

The chance to spend more quality time with his boyfriend was what motivated Goro to grit his teeth and accept the invitation to spend not just a few hours with his rowdy friends, but approximately one hundred sixty-eight. Day and night with no breaks aside from going to the bathroom to reflectively sit on the toilet and ~~dissociate~~ stare at the wall for ten minutes. Or until someone knocked and asked what the hell he was doing in there. 

They all boarded the platform for the Yamanote line. Each person took responsibility for their own belongings, except for Kitagawa and Futaba whose noodle arms could not bear the weight of their extra items (art supplies and a full gaming PC, respectively). Yoshizawa had gleefully offered to carry the computer and did so with alarming ease given her size. Kitagawa had outright told Sakamoto that he would be carrying the art supplies while Kitagawa took the boogie boards instead, leaving no room for arguments or disagreements. 

The train ride was mostly uneventful. To occupy himself, Goro reread the gaudy advertisements until he became completely numb and no longer needed to be entertained. The posters boasted of festivals and concerts and other crowded social gatherings that sounded like they would be Goro’s own personal hell: loud music blasting while some drunken baboon spilled an explosive concoction composed of beer and grape soda all over his crotch. 

Any ads that weren’t about overinflated parties were for insurance or new flavors of Dr. Salt whose birth was even more of a curse onto the human race than his own abhorred emergence from his mother’s ravaged womb.

He knew that carrying such bulky and absurd luggage on the subway was abnormal. Even his small briefcase had gotten a few looks every once in a while. The judgmental eyes of passengers always made him feel like legions of spiders were crawling around under his clothes. Thankfully, the combined luggage being hauled by Sakamoto and Yoshizawa was garnering most of the attention. Sakamoto was likely used to being stared at for his bold hair and clothes, so their stares didn’t faze him. 

He wasn’t so sure about Yoshizawa. During the one time when he’d met her acting as her deceased sister back in July, she seemed abundantly cheerful, unfazed by his blatant instigation of potential tension between her and Akira. Yet her true self was quite the opposite. Clearly, the poor girl was going through some confusion regarding her identity, but Goro didn’t think that it was unfair to suggest that he might be more perplexed by her than she was by herself. Despite all of her shyness and nerves, she had approached him in the safe rooms of Maruki’s palace and Mementos on multiple occasions. Even when he was all brooding and looked very much dangerous. Now, she seemed to be doing alright, even with all the eyes on her, though Goro could tell that she felt some semblance of discomfort from her little glances around the filled up car.

Over the loudspeakers came a male voice that would have probably been soothing or pleasant if not for the opposing atmosphere created by every other element of the train. Niijima relayed that they were arriving in Shinagawa and whipped the whole lot of them into shape with a series of stern looks and angry arm motions. Futaba had no problem dashing out of the train at a high enough speed that, even given her stature, she would send the first person whom she bumped into tumbling to the dirty floor. The rest of them followed her lead like a fleet of clowns getting out of one puny car.

Niijima quickly took the front instead and reminded them all to take out their digital tickets. In an odd way, the idea of giving this troop of idiots digital tickets was ingenious, Goro had to give Niijima that. While paper could be lost in a pocket or blown away in the window, every one of them would die before losing phone access. Goro less so, since the only person whom he really texted was Akira and they’d be together the whole time anyway. But should he need something to keep him busy, it would be vital. Maybe he’d need to download one of those mindless mobile games with grating sound effects for the first time.

As they were boarding the Nozomi Shinkansen, Akira walked up next to Goro and brushed past his shoulder. The nerve endings in Goro’s arm were electrified. “Let’s sit together,” Akira suggested, fully knowing that there was no one else whom Goro would rather spend four and a half hours with. “Do you want the window or the aisle seat?”

In the loud car, a window had been the obvious choice, but Goro actually had to think about it a bit. The aisle seat would offer an easy escape route, and quite frankly, he wouldn’t quite mind Akira’s ass in his face if the younger boy needed to get up for whatever reason, especially since he wouldn’t be there to see Goro bury his pink face in his hands afterward. And if he stared at Akira’s face from there, it would look like he was merely gazing out the window. 

If he took the window seat, he’d have the view to look at– an especially handy asset if reading too much started to make him feel slightly ill. He wasn’t sure if he was comfortable having the conversation about why he purchased such a book with Akira either though. 

Goro made for an awfully pathetic rival if Akira could befriend a _former yakuza_ within his first week in Tokyo and Goro couldn’t talk to people his age without selling himself out as a Persona user. 

Whenever Goro visited Leblanc– even back when he was working as a teenage cognition hitman between interviews– Akira always tried to strike a conversation about the book that he was reading. Despite knowing how this relationship would end, Goro leaped at the invitation to explain his theories and opinions. At business meetings, the foul associates always praised him and told him that he was such a bright young man for reading such dense texts. Their hypocrisy was transparent: their lack of other responses gave away that they had never read a smart book in their lives, and yet he was expected to trudge through these vast volumes in his extremely limited free time just to appease them. 

Perhaps his most exciting visit was when he arrived to find Akira at the counter finishing the last few pages of a book on Hegel’s philosophies. Akira had gone out and bought that book just so he could talk to Goro about it. That had to be the nicest thing anyone had done for him in a long time. It was an awful shame that he had to die.

Every day, Goro thanked his mother up in the afterlife that he’d failed.

Akira would ask about his book no matter where he sat, so Goro went with the window to minimize the possibility of whoever was in the aisle seat directly across from them also seeing it. Compared to the Tokyo subway, the Shinkansen was a godsend. There was no bumping or shakiness, if not for the scenery whizzing past them Goro wouldn’t have known that it was moving at all.

At last, with the blasting air conditioner parting an indent into his bangs, Goro opened up his book. 

The inside cover repeated the same text from the title as if to remind him that he was in fact going to read a book on making friends, hammering in that he lived a sad, sad existence. The table of contents was not much better. Goro skipped the introduction. He’d rather not listen to some well-off martyr proclaiming their utmost sympathy for the poor unfortunate souls who would need to purchase such a book. 

Section 1: Making Yourself Available.

Already Goro didn’t like the sound of that. As he kept reading, he found himself feeling more personally attacked than motivated or inspired. It advised against sitting alone and encouraged him to seek out social functions. He supposed that this trip counted as a social function. A painfully long one too. That was already a whole lot of putting himself out there. He didn’t think that he was capable of pushing himself beyond that without shattering into a rain of glass shards and hurting the people whom he was attempting to connect with. 

The book said to try connecting with people whom he already knew but gave no indication of how one was supposed to connect with another person. Was that part just common knowledge? Was there something missing from him specifically that everyone else had that would make such a daunting task seem very much fathomable? Why did the concept elude him so persistently?

“Hey, honey.” Goro slammed his book shut at the sound of the low voice addressing him and turned to face Akira. As expected, Akira posed the typically-revered-now-dreaded question, “What are you reading?”

There was no use trying to lie or worm out of it when the evidence was within Akira’s grasp. Akira tended to know when he was lying anyway. He had to be able to tell in order to interact so much with Goro without going crazy himself. 

“I’m trying to improve my interpersonal skills,” Goro admitted, whispering so as to evade any big ears attached to nosy teenagers. “Such skills are vital to a trip such as this one, and mine at their current levels are greatly insufficient.”

The straight line that was Akira’s mouth arched downward just slightly. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say insufficient,” Akira corrected in his gentle, easing way, “I mean, you’re fine talking to me, right?” 

That was not entirely true, in Goro’s honest opinion. He so often fumbled with his words, unable to breathe life into them in a coherent way, and instead defaulted to telling Akira that he was really interesting for the thousandth fucking time. And he still genuinely meant it beyond the one thousand and first, but he grew frustrated with his continual inadequacy. 

“I suppose so,” Goro replied in lieu of dumping all of that at Akira’s feet. He’d burdened Akira enough by compulsively rambling about his terrible childhood in the middle of the bathhouse and Leblanc. Thinking about how odd that must have been made him wince. 

“Goro,” Akira said, commanding with a single word for Goro to meet his eyes dead-on. He pointed at the book, “This is great. You’re making an effort. If anything in here ends up working for you, that’ll be even better. Nothing would make me happier than to see you happy.” “You know that,” he added, with a cheeky little smirk that made Goro’s heart try to bust out of his chest, where it would roll onto the floor, still beating rapidly.

All Goro could do in response— that wouldn’t also result in early death— was nod and open his book back up. What he read next did not please him. The friendship scripture foretold that chances were that people would not approach him first. He had to make the first move. 

Goro resisted the urge to groan so as to avoid Akira’s inquiries about what was troubling him. He would acknowledge that the book was not _wrong_ per se, especially since he tended to exude the aura of a cat lurking in the corner with its claws out, ready to scratch out the eyeballs of anyone who tried to pet him. But this book offered no reliable counter-strategy. Their idea of making the first move was approaching strangers on the street and asking about the weather. There was no way that he was the only one who didn’t think that was in any way normal. 

It went into five paragraphs talking about the importance of eye contact and smiling. Eye contact was challenging unless he was glaring at someone. He felt like the other person’s eyes could stare directly into his wicked soul and see how pathetic he was. With Akira, that was alright, though his boyfriend would often have to remind him to look him in the eye. 

In the Detective Prince days, he got away with closing his eyes whenever he handed people that sweet little smile of his. He’d spent hours training that benign expression onto his face, working it until it became a reflex. With his true, uglier colors exposed, Goro couldn’t fall back on it anymore without seeming like a fake ass bitch boy. 

Were he to heed the advice of this book, he would need to dust off his natural smile, crooked and stiff as it was from prolonged disuse. It looked especially bad when he showed his teeth– not that he had bad teeth; they were perfect actually– as was commonplace in the group photos that Takamaki would undoubtedly ask for. 

Goro skipped ahead a bit more. “ _Emphasize Your Good Qualities_.” Nope. Not applicable. And being intelligent only ever made people think that he was a pretentious asshole.

Self-improvement seemed to only be reminding him how low his starting point was. The book shut and Goro placed it in the pouch on the seat in front of him. A quick glance at his phone showed that a lot more time had passed than he thought, but there was still a long way to go until they arrived in Fukuoka. He could try to fall asleep, but that was a struggle even when it was dark out and he was lying in bed. It seemed impossible with the sunlight from the window shining in his eyes. Goro started counting all the trees to occupy himself. The train was moving far too quickly for him to actually do so, but he tried anyway because he wasn’t a quitter. He should have suspected the book might not fill all of his time and downloaded a podcast or something. 

Secretly, his favorites were the analyses of Featherman seasons that he could still recall from his childhood. The hours spent in front of the TV as a little boy stood out as the highlights, even if his mother had often turned on the TV so that he would leave her alone for a bit. Tuning in to discussions of the episodes that he remembered so fondly brought back some of the naive glee that he’d felt while watching them. 

Otherwise, he tended to listen to ones covering issues in modern society. Given the identity of the former owner of the house that he was soon to be staying in, the thought of listening to a discussion of a recent murder or the practices of corrupt CEOs made him feel a bit nauseous. 

Around the time when Goro’s wholly inaccurate internal counter reached two hundred trees, he heard Takamki’s familiar voice ordering ekiben— the bento boxes unique to train stations in Japan. He hadn’t _entirely_ skipped breakfast that morning; he had miso soup leftover from a takeout dinner two days ago before departing for Leblanc with his suitcase. 

The Shinkansen provided a silence completely unlike the inane chatter in the van or the rumbling of the subway rolling down rickety tracks, a silence in which he could clearly hear the growls of a pack of wolves emitting from his stomach. Eating would silence them and give him something to do, so Goro extracted the menu from behind his cursed book in the front pocket.

Akira was quick to lean over so that their shoulders touched and read the options. The ekiben all sounded delicious— and they would satiate his rumbling stomach— so Goro would definitely be ordering one of those. Deciding which one was more difficult. To procrastinate, Goro skimmed over the smaller snacks. There were two flavors of Procky available: chocolate and strawberry. 

The waitress with the snack cart came by and they both ordered different ekiben, with Goro softly adding that he wanted strawberry Procky just before she moved on to the next set of seats. He held the box in both of his hands and examined it. 

The bubblegum pink was a shade that he’d probably never worn ever in his life— unless one of the oversized Featherman tees that his mom had found for him at a rummage sale or thrift store had Pink Argus featured among the rest of the rangers. It didn’t bother him though. Maybe he should find a sweater in that color and order it online so he’d have a fun surprise waiting for him when he got home. That’d make his return to the barren apartment feel a little less empty.

Prying the small box open with his gloves on was a bit difficult, but he managed to dig a finger under one of the flaps. The sound of it cracking open got Akira’s attention. “Procky, huh?” Akira observed. When Goro turned to face him, his smile was dipped in mischief and sass, a trickster through and through. “I’m not sure if public transportation is the best place to be playing the Procky game.”

“The Procky game?” Goro parroted. If it wasn’t suitable for public transportation, Goro could only imagine it being loud, chaotic, or messy. Perhaps a sword duel using the two long biscuits, or something of that sort.

Akira’s face softened and, oh, Goro _hated_ that look immensely. “You don’t—?” Akira cut himself off and shook his head, mercifully sparing Goro from having to confirm that yes, he really didn’t know this apparently common game and, yes, that was probably the byproduct of his harrowing childhood. “Give me one and I’ll explain it.”

Goro plucked out two Procky sticks and held them out. After Akira took one, Goro stuck the other into his own mouth. 

The crunch of the breadstick between his teeth was wonderfully gratifying, flakes of the strawberry cream coating falling off and melting on his tongue. Its taste was not unlike his current thing of lip balm that he was using, sweet and fruity yet not intrusively so. This was dangerous. He’d probably quickly chomp through the whole box like a rabbit with a carrot. A reformed-cognitive-hitman-turned-Procky-addict.

“So, you and a partner take opposite ends of the Procky stick between your teeth. Then, you take turns biting it. If you drop it, you lose. The goal is to get to the middle…” If Akira’s face before had contained a twinkle of trickery, it now displayed a full star storm. “And then _kiss_.”

The Procky currently sticking out of Goro’s mouth tilted upwards. _A kiss_. Strawberry cream on strawberry lip balm on the scent of freshly roasted coffee, the aroma of home. The two of them coming together in an innocent act filled to the brim with the light bliss of young love, all their turmoil drowning in a pot of melted strawberry candy, everything dipped in rosy pinks. 

But none of that would be happening today because Goro was a coward and a perfectionist. Fresh as their confession was, a kiss had yet to bloom from the newly sprouted bud. Given the course of the rest of his life, one could correctly assume that Goro had never kissed anyone in his wretched existence. And no, his mother pulling the blankets on the pull out couch over his shoulders and kissing his forehead did not count. She was rarely back home early enough to tuck him in anyway. 

Regardless, he knew that their first kiss had to be perfect. The epitome of romance. A moment that he would look back on with no regrets or ways that he would like to change it. 

After swallowing the last of his first Procky stick, Goro begged whatever dark spirits that might help someone like him to grant him relief from his social ineptitude. “Hm. P-perhaps we could try it another time.” Besides the stutter, he did alright. Not particularly smooth or charming, but agreeable. A passing grade. Thanks, dark spirits. 

“Sounds like a plan,” Akira replied, countering Goro’s flimsy composure enchantment just after it’d been cast. 

Magic seemed to be his expertise, with the whole wishing-back-to-life thing and whatever curse he’d placed Goro under when the detective agreed to put himself in a position so treacherously vulnerable as that of someone’s little boyfriend. 

It was more like a blessing really. Now, Goro knew that the ache in his chest came from affection and not him aging prematurely due to copious stress. 

(No one needed to know about the hair dye and anti-balding serum tucked away in his bathroom cabinets. He almost packed them with him just in case this so-called-vacation aged him a few decades but decided that the sheer embarrassment that would ensue if someone found them would kill him on the spot.)

While he gnawed on his second Procky stick, he opened up his phone and started looking for a pink sweater vest that he liked. He intentionally ignored the fact that none of the models were remotely close to his age. That was insignificant and definitely not a sign of anything. There ended up being two that really appealed to him, so he ended up buying both. When he chomped his fifth Procky stick, little flakes of the pink cream fell onto his screen, confirming that they were in fact the same color.

The bento box was, quite frankly, adorable. The box itself was shaped and colored to resemble an actual Shinkansen bullet train, a charming detail that made it feel like a part of the experience. Despite his reservations about the whole vacation idea, Goro had to admit that there was something mystical about it. It wasn't every day that one went on a long trip like this, and it certainly wasn't every day that one boarded public transportation that didn't feel cramped.

Subways stressed him out. Sometimes, if he zoned out for too long, he would start to see pulsing red veins snake up the walls like ivy or hear the moans of shadows mingling with the whining of civilians. The palace of the people in every sense of the phrase. 

In especially tough cases, the rattling of chains would begin to ring in his head, tightening around his arms, legs, and waist in a way that felt so painfully familiar. A prisoner to his own will.

Needless to say, riding far from Tokyo with his boyfriend who freed him was a relief. Speaking of which, amid Goro's brooding, Akira had drifted into a peaceful sleep, soft eyelashes fluttering beneath glasses that were crooked on his nose. Goro had yet to determine which made his heart rate spike the most: this sort of tenderness or the cocky flair that Joker wore like a stylish coat. 

In lieu of seizing this opportunity and taking advantage of the fact that Akira slept like the dead, Goro shoved a hand into his pocket and dug out his wired earbuds. 

The wireless ones were far more common these days, but Goro didn't like how hidden they were. Visible wires gave off the aura that he didn't want to speak to anybody, which he was more than okay with. 

That sentiment was likely not universally sustainable in the long run. 

Finding a therapist sounded like a lot of work and a lot of long meetings during which Sae had tried to get him to think about his future. 

The younger Niijima was sitting with Okumura a few rows ahead, engulfed in some sort of mind-numbing test-prep book. Which made no sense, since she'd already started college in the spring, and this was their break, so the first round of exams was already over. Knowing her, she was probably reading up on the courses that she had lined up for the next semester just to come into class already being the smartest in the room. 

Admittedly, Goro could relate— a truly rare occurrence for him, understanding other people was especially difficult when he didn't understand himself. But that's what scared him: she liked getting ahead. 

Chances were that Sae had sent her with orders to make him agree to something and he could expect the former Miss President to do a significantly more personal encore of her interrogation during the school festival in October. He didn't know how anyone expected him to find a therapist whom he could talk to about the fact that a good portion of his trauma stemmed from literal fucking murder.

Akira did convince him to look up some ways to destress though. As much as Goro insisted that he deserved it, feeling antsy and miserable all the time was not fun and it'd be nice to have a way to put it on pause, if only for a few minutes of relief. So, Goro opened up his music app and pushed play. 

The world of playlist curating was endless and infinite. He remembered Akira hopping onto the stool next to him in Leblanc and showing him an array of playlists that he'd made with themes ranging from different emotions, different activities, and one that mysteriously was only labeled with a black heart emoji. Goro wasn't sure what it meant or how to access the emoji keyboard on his phone, but he started making several of his own. 

Most of them were collections of his favorite jazz tunes. Then, there was one full of tunes in which the performers released copious amounts of pent up aggression in a way that maybe only destroyed their vocal cords. But today he was not in the mood for either. In this instance, he queued up a set simply titled "bf".

It was pathetic, really, to see your boyfriend peacefully sleeping and turn on a loop of music with lyrics about finding love and kisses that took away all breath, only to send it rushing back in like a wave of pure euphoria washing over everything. Even more pathetic was when Goro closed his eyes, staying conscious but beginning to dream. 

His mind wandered to the fairy tales that his mother would read to him before bed, stories of a dashing prince coming to the rescue of a fair maiden and resurrecting her with a kiss. The other children would reenact these kinds of stories— minus the kissing— and he always longed to join in, but he'd been told that to be a prince, one had to be rich, and he didn't even have the money to buy decent clothes. 

A kiss like that would be perfect, a big "fuck you" to the snotty little boys who tormented him with his social status. And Goro was nothing if not petty.

The melodies coming from the tiny speakers in his ears echoed mirroring sentiments, ones of warmth and promise of more love to come. He was reduced to a lovesick schoolboy listening to the chorus's descriptions of a cozy embrace. 

Goro glanced at Akira to make sure that his beloved idiot rival was still asleep before resting his gloved hand just next to his. Initiating a handhold seemed a bit too much, especially given how overwhelmed he was by an emotion that he could only think to describe through a very long scream. 

The music spoke of waking up beside a loved one every single morning. Goro tore his eyes away to stare at the window to distract himself, trying not to imagine the sprawling green plains as a fluffy comforter on a bed built for two.

He didn't feel someone taking the earbud out of his ear, he only felt its absence a second later. "Oooh," Akira said sleepily, "the elusive Goro music. Let's see how many Featherman OPs you have downloaded."

Somehow, sappy love songs would be far more embarrassing than those beautifully crafted openers. And Akira would have some snarky comment to make. In a panic, Goro squeaked way too loudly and pressed the pause button with his thumb hard enough to crack the glass. 

With the music gone, Goro could hear the passengers behind them making shushing noises. He wanted the recliner seat to swallow him, digest him, and release what remained of him into the ocean where it would sink to the bottom and never be found again.

Goro turned on "Jazz Favorites 19" simply because it was the first socially acceptable one he saw. Personally, he thought that volumes 1, 4, 11, and 23 were the best, but this would do for now. And in a way, it was familiar enough to calm him down. 

Just him and Akira in their own little bubble quietly listening to some jazz music, a serene silence between them that need not be broken by stilted small talk. Any conversation would emerge naturally, their battle of the wits substituted for genuine enjoyment. They spent the rest of the ride like that, with Goro only opening his eyes to line up the superior playlists to play after this one had reached its final major seventh chord. 

At long last, they arrived in Fukuoka. Goro extracted his manual for socially incompetent mistakes of god from the seat in front of him before following Akira off of the train. He contemplated leaving it behind but decided that was both unproductive and wasteful. 

Akira stretched out like a cat when they both made it to the platform, his shirt rising just enough to reveal his midriff. Four hours of sitting later Goro felt similarly stiff but would rather not have to re-tuck his shirt into his khakis.

When Okumura exited the train, she had her phone pressed to her ear and was chatting amiably with the person on the other line.

It was hard to pick up any clear words or phrases with the rest of the commotion surrounding them, but Goro did hear her say that she would tip whoever it was generously. He decided that was probably the hitman whom she had hired to take him out in a way that would look like an accident—a fitting end given his involvement in doing the same under Shido's orders. 

A few minutes of awkward loitering later, Okumura perked up and waved at a car approaching their large group. The driver lowered the window and invited her into the passenger seat. Goro did his best to memorize his face, since this was certainly the man who would put an end to his over-extended life. "Pile in everyone! Unfortunately, the bigger van is in for repairs, so some of us will have to sit on the floor," Okumura explained.

Before she was even done speaking, the other thieves scrambled over to the car to chuck their suitcases into the trunk and claim a seat. Unsurprisingly, Sakamoto and Takamaki were first, both of them shoving each other the whole time like petulant school children. 

In fear of being flattened, Goro waited a bit longer before walking over to the trunk and placing his own luggage on top. His legs felt like they'd been replaced with those floppy tube man things.

And of course, that meant he'd be sitting on the floor. He sighed and took his place between Sakamoto and Takamaki's feet, hoping that by some miracle, Sakamoto's worn sneakers were not caked in dirt. A running theme of today seemed to be Sakamoto Ryuji getting crap on his pants. But there was a notable difference between now and the drive to the station. If sitting between the vulgar blonde and Kitagawa earlier had been tight, this was a circulation killer. 

Through every bumpy part of the road and every knee bonking into his head, all Goro could think about was what on earth he would do if he got stuck. He certainly felt stuck. Thank god neither dumb blonde had asked him to move because he was almost positive that he couldn't. Someone would need to yank him out and then they'd be touching him and he might flip out and it'd be a whole awful scary mess.

His luck ran out somewhere around what he assumed was the middle mark of this final stretch of misery. Sakamoto nudged Goro's back with his leg, sending a jolt up Goro’s spine. "Dude, could you scooch your ass a bit? You're totally crushing my foot."

Goro chewed the inside of his cheek to bite back the snarky comment on the fact that he had a name and did not appreciate Sakamoto's dude-ification. "There's not enough room for me to move at all," Goro replied evenly, trying to keep his irritation on a leash only because Sakamoto currently had the high ground.

And boy, did he use it. Sakamoto sighed and muttered, "I was wondering where all the delicious pancakes went." Takamaki smacked his arm but could not keep herself from snickering. That is, until Goro met her eyes. She went silent and then began to berate Sakamoto for being rude, a tirade that Goro did not tune into because he was too busy trying to figure out what Sakamoto even meant. 

His knee jerk anger had been due to the echo of "delicious pancakes", but the rest eluded him. Where they went? Went to where? And what did that have to do with him sitting on Sakamoto's smelly feet? Goro replayed the sentence over and over in his head until "pancakes'' didn't sound anything like a remotely real word anymore.

From his vantage point on the floor, Goro couldn't see anything out of the windows except a few clouds. When Okumura pointed out the ocean and everyone else (minus whatever poor soul was on the floor in the other row) leaned over to get a closer look, Goro just got his face pressed into Takamaki's bare calves. He had to be the only person here who hadn't dreamed of that happening to them. Sooooo, lucky him? 

Okumura giggled sweetly and informed them that this meant they were almost there. That was the final test then: to see if Goro was truly going to be stuck on the floor of this car until he wasted away altogether.

As they approached what Goro assumed was a quaint beach town, Okumura took on the role of a tour guide, pointing out famous spots and restaurants that they could visit. For the most part, Goro didn't pay attention since he couldn't see any of these places she was talking about. 

But then, she said his name. "Oh! I think you might like this cafe, Akechi-kun," she said, as if she was talking to a functioning human person and not a fucked up husk of one. "The atmosphere is cozy and the manager has good taste in music."

"I can't really see anything from here," Goro responded, an acknowledgment that he heard her but neither an agreement nor an argument. 

Okumura turned around, fluffy cloud hair swiveling to be replaced with a smiling face. "Then, I guess we'll have to go visit for you to see what it looks like." 

That tiny woman looking down at him groveling on the floor of her rental car made him feel like one of the ants he used to enjoy observing. Other kids would see him sitting on the curb and decide that crushing the ants just to make him upset sounded fun. Goro vaguely wondered what the success rate of making an ant choke on cotton candy was. Okumura faced forward once more and resumed her tour without a hitch.

Behind him, Yoshizawa gasped. “Wow, these houses are lovely. Is yours like this, Okumura-senpai?” she asked.

“Somewhat,” the young heiress replied, with a hint of mischief that Goro was far more accustomed to hearing from Akira or Futaba than he was from her.

Akira seemed to be a lost cause, but he wondered how the other two could stand to see him get off with nothing more than a hard slap on the back that made him stagger a little, a probation, and a promise that he’d find a permanent psychiatrist in the next six months. Otherwise, he’d just be given one, but he really didn’t trust the state that convicted Akira and let his father become prime minister to find someone whom he’d be comfortable with. 

Hell, if worst came to worst, maybe he’d resort to seeing Maruki for a bit as a temporary solution. The guy might’ve had a god complex and been a self-righteous preachy dick, but at least he knew the Metaverse and he wouldn’t blink an eye at any of the related traumas.

Goro could pinpoint the moment when the Okumura beach house came into view from the sound of many overdramatic gasps and a collective “woah”. He felt like a kindergartner in a crowded zoo, failing to see any of the animals through all the taller people blocking his view. 

Well, maybe he’d never actually been to a zoo, but that seemed to be what happened at such places. The aquarium, for instance, though when he had gone with Akira, it’d been late enough that the number of children was minimal.

The car pulled into a driveway; Goro only knew as much from the slight incline. Sitting on this floor, he felt like he could sense every imperfection in the pavement beneath the wheels. The automatic door slid open—his first glimpse of freedom. 

Before Takamaki or Sakamoto could attempt to wedge their feet out from under him, he made a break for it. As much as he could anyway. Scooting through a tight space on his ass didn't lend much opportunity for speed.

As soon as he stumbled out of the car, he laid eyes on the beach house of the late President Okumura for the first time. Goro didn’t know what he’d thought it was going to look like. Maybe he had expected the sterile corporate look of the Okumura Foods Headquarters in Tokyo. Better yet, something with a sinister edge to it, which was fitting of a man who would go so far as to order hits to take out competing brands for fucking hamburgers. His palace had been like that, looming and devoid of humanity to the point which many of the shadows lurking within were merely identical robots.

The building towering over Goro was none of those things. It was just a house. A very big house— bigger than he could ever dream of owning himself— but a normal, pleasant house nonetheless. It looked nice. Just a house bought by a person for people to live in.

Car sickness had to be the only explanation for the sudden illness washing over him.

The voice of the daughter who remained rang in his ears. “Welcome to my beach house, everyone!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Instinctively, he hid his “How to Make Friends” book behind his back because good god if Yoshizawa commented on it he was throwing himself down the stairs._
> 
> _“Oh! By any chance would you mind lending me that book once you’re done with it, Akechi-senpai?”_
> 
> _Yoshizawa’s suitcase formed a barrier between him and his descent. Shit._
> 
> In which Goro is an awkward mess and mourns his foolishness in the middle of a Junes store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Magic-Magpie for being my beta reader!
> 
> I promise they'll actually go to the beach next time lol. Regardless, enjoy it!

Goro stood there with his suitcase and watched Okumura’s hired chauffeur drive away, feeling not unlike he was marooned on an island. He just happened to be marooned with a congregation of morons and a heavy conscience filling his body with yellow sand. It was this weight that made him linger in the back while Okumura gave everyone a house tour. Goro tuned in solely out of necessity, consuming only concrete fact lest the little bits of subjectivity slowly drag him down. 

The majority of the lower floor was just a big garage. To transport their rowdy lot, two of the cars would be utilized. From Akira, Goro knew that Okumura was a menace on the road despite her proper exterior and the hours of expensive coaching she’d likely received when practicing for her license. No one asked if he could drive, so Goro felt no obligation to offer to do so. He wasn’t sure how he’d fare on the road with the chatter of the peanut gallery distracting him anyway— such a combination wouldn’t exactly do wonders for his neurotic tendencies. Chances were he'd start speeding just so he could eject them all into a parking lot faster.

Besides the cars, the lower floor had three bathrooms, some storage space, and a guest room— presumably for a servant. The tour moved past it pretty quickly, but Goro quickly poked his head in through the door. Generic beach-themed decor, a queen bed, a closet, and a dresser. Already nicer than his own room. “Okumura-san?” he called. The clump of other bodies parted like the seas to reveal her. “Can I take this room?”

Okumura didn’t come any closer, but he saw the corners of her mouth turn down. He didn’t know what reaction he was expecting, but this felt peculiar.

“There’s no way up to the main floor from there without having to go outside,” she said. Her smile didn’t carry any of its usual cheer. “I think we should all stay together.”

Once it was clear that she had nothing more to say, the gap was closed once more. There went his attempt to partially relieve them all of the burden that was his presence. He could no longer be held responsible when they got sick of dealing with him.

The front entrance was up a flight of stairs, which led to a decent-sized balcony. Yoshizawa — ever the gold standard for proper manners amongst these neanderthals — held the door open as everyone pulled their luggage into the main area. Goro heard the people ahead of him oohing and ahhing while he carried his suitcase up the stairs. A single dent in its silver casing would ruin his day, so he handled it with care. 

Yoshizawa gave him a smile that was not unlike the heat of the sun beating down on his back. She whispered to him giddily like they were school children swapping trivial secrets under the plastic slide, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a sleepover with this many people before, senpai. It’s kind of _exciting_ to be spending so much time with so many friends.”

Yoshizawa lived in a blissful world where Goro’s engine room meltdown was not the first thing she thought of when she looked at him. In fact, it wasn’t anywhere in her memory at all. When he heard about it, Goro thought Akira’s rejection of her offer to help the thieves through Shido’s palace was incredibly foolish. Seeing as Joker already subscribed to the “the more the merrier” philosophy, missing out on another body to send flying at Shido made no strategic sense; it was a waste of good firepower. That being said, it was not hard to make the connection between Yoshizawa being absent for his tantrum and her being the only one who seemed to almost respect him. 

(Akira did not count because Akira was an anomaly in every way imaginable. The moment Goro thought he might be beginning to fathom the infamous Phantom Thief, Joker would counter with something unfathomable— asking known buzzkill-lunatic Akechi Goro to be his gay lover was only _one_ instance.)

In no way did Goro feel obligated to fill her in on the time he raved madly about not needing teammates or friends and helping his estranged father rise to the top so he could ruin him by revealing himself to the world as that psycho’s bastard son and warping his whole personality into something more palatable in an attempt to gain the shallow adoration of the public to fill the void of affection carved into him by his traumatic childhood and etc. Instinctively, he hid his “How to Make Friends” book behind his back because good god if Yoshizawa commented on it he was throwing himself down the stairs. 

“Oh! By any chance would you mind lending me that book once you’re done with it, Akechi-senpai?”

Yoshizawa’s suitcase formed a barrier between him and his descent. Shit.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be done with it,” he replied. It felt like he was admitting to something, but he wasn’t sure if it was defeat or illiteracy. Neither looked good. Goro scrunched up his nose and gave her question a second look from where it was scorched into his brain. “Wait. Why do _you_ need it?”

That made him feel like an asshole because suddenly she looked how he felt.

“Well,” she started, “the others have been really nice, but they’ve all been a group for a few months before I joined. I’m a late addition, so it feels like I’m not really acclimated to their dynamic yet— I’m sure you of all people understand where I’m coming from.”

Goro snorted. “You didn’t try to _kill_ them. You’re in better shape than me.” He omitted the whole parent thing because if Okumura or Futaba heard him that would be awful.

“I did try to kill you and Akira-senpai though,” Yoshizawa corrected. Goro had no clue why she was trying to lower herself to his level somehow.

“That instance hardly counts.” _Do you know all that “ruthless” screaming that frightened you so, Yoshizawa? I drove myself psychotic and directed all that crazy towards your precious Akira-senpai and his little teammates. A madman taking control of your persona is insignificant next to me breaking my own fucking mind_.

Yoshizawa shrugged. “Whatever you say, senpai. If you want to practice some of the tips in that book on me, I wouldn’t mind. Maybe then I could learn from it too.” She shifted to hold the door open with her body instead of her arm so she could extend a hand out to him. “Do we have a deal?”

A deal. How pathetic the two of them must be to need a cold, objective contract to nurture something so completely conceptually opposing to such rigidness as a bond. And yet, that almost made the idea seem simpler. Accepting her proposal made him a resource to her and vice versa. That would be like what his book said: making himself available. He still didn’t know how the conversational tips of asking about the weather and such could possibly work, but he supposed he would need a willing test subject to figure that out. A deal would prove mutually beneficial.

“Fine.”

The pair of them skittered to meet up with the rest, who apparently had been too busy gawking at the high ceilings to notice either of them were gone. Minus Akira, of course, who’d been waiting towards the back and waved for Goro to come to his side with his hand. He did so and felt Akira’s arm wrap around his waist. 

The kitchen and common area had no divider between them, making for one large common space with a huge TV mounted on the wall. It had to be bigger than any surface in Goro’s whole apartment (besides the floor). Okumura advertised the existence of three ovens in the kitchen so they could all cook a meal together. Goro wasn’t sure if excluding himself from such activities would be for the sake of keeping a lid on his anxiety or for the safety of her kitchen. When the time came, he would simply say he was not good at cooking and make his way over to the armchair he spotted tucked in the corner.

Okumura and Niijima drew open the thick curtains, revealing tall windows and a sliding door for a balcony. Once the door was open the cool ocean breeze blew into the large room, a total contrast from the oppressive heat Goro had felt as they were loading into the car that morning. Akira stepped out onto the balcony, taking Goro towards the railing with him. Now it was _him_ who couldn’t help but gasp like a little child. 

Directly below them was a sprawling valley of sand. As the dunes stretched forth, they became populated by vibrant umbrellas and the moving shapes of people, becoming denser as they approached the ocean. Even from way up here Goro could hear the waves crashing down. He’d never gone to the beach before, yet the sounds were familiar from playlists of ambient noise he used to try to make himself sleep more soundly. The feeling settling in his chest was not quite nostalgia; perhaps its shriveled, melancholy sibling. Deprivation meeting longing. Goro tasted salt in the air.

“ _Oh my God_!” Takamaki squealed as she barreled towards the railing with enough impact to break it clean off. 

“We’re right on the beach!” Sakamoto yelled, echoing her actions and sentiments with heightened dumbassery. Ten minutes in and they were already testing the integrity of the construction.

Niijima sighed like she was releasing a ton of bricks she’d been hauling up the stairs. “This’ll be much easier than rounding everyone up and needing to travel there.”

“The landscape is appealing and there are plenty of subjects available to study,” Kitagawa observed. “This will be an excellent place for my sketching.”

There went Goro’s plans of using this place as a refuge, his own safe room from the shadows of his misdeeds milling about.

Besides the whole kitchen-living-room-dining-room combo space, the lower floor also had a walk-in closet for coats, a laundry room more fitting of a college dormitory than one single house, and two bathrooms. Goro tried not to look too excited when Okumura said every bathroom in the house had a different soap scent. He didn’t know why he found that so pleasing; it wasn’t like he’d be able to smell the soap with his gloves on. 

Before Okumura could actually lead them all up the stairs, Futaba zipped past her yelling, “I’m not sharing, suckers!”

 _Shit_.

In the midst of worrying about the overarching _concept_ of the trip, Goro had forgotten to dedicate _individual_ nervous fits to the basic components of such an undertaking. 

“Akira,” Goro said weakly, “can I…?”

“Oh, we’re _definitely_ sharing a room,” Akira the telepath agreed. “It’ll be practice for when we get married.”

Morgana decided this was a good time to mime retching and abandon Joker in favor of ~ _Lady Ann_ ~.

“You said when— not if,” Goro pointed out with as much neutrality as he could muster. “Explain.”

“What, why do I think I’m gonna marry you? Well, that’s easy,” Akira replied. “We’re soulmates. Our fates have always been connected, but then some nasty god decided to screw them up. So I shot him, and now we get to do our gay thing.”

“Your trust in fate is blindly idealistic.”

“Hey, you were the one who said all that really cute stuff about a strange connection and whatnot,” Akira said, “not me.”

“It wasn’t _cute,_ it was…” _It was me being a gay little attention whore who was continually interacting with another person for the first time ever and feeling overwhelmed by my pathetic repressed emotions_.

Akira grinned. “See? Look at that face. A cutie. Husband material, right there.”

“I can’t look at my own face.”

“My point still stands.”

Goro knew from experience and vague familiarity with the muscle structure of his own face that the expression Akira had deemed “husband material” actually looked nothing short of extremely constipated. But he let it go in favor of letting a little bit of much-needed serotonin be released. 

The master bedroom was always going to belong to Okumura and Niijima so no one even tried to overrule them. With Futaba claiming her own space, the rest of them split off— Kitagawa and Sakamoto pairing up and Takamaki and Yoshizawa taking the room next to the one Goro and Akira would be sleeping in. Each room had its own bathroom with a full deep tub and showerhead. Akira entered their room, Goro not far behind him. Two queen-sized beds lay on opposite sides of the room, a dresser with two columns of drawers between them, and one closet. Goro wasn’t sure if the dual beds instead of one big one was a relief or a disappointment. As expected from him, Akira’s way of going about who got which side of the room was incredibly corny.

“If we’re both standing in front of the dresser and doing stuff, we still wanna be able to hold hands,” he explained. “So you take the left bed and drawers, I’ll take the right.”

Goro was fine with this since the left side was closer to the door anyway. 

With a bit more effort than he could care to admit, Goro hoisted his suitcase onto the bed and unlatched it. Inside was a stack of different colored sweater vests, underneath which there were six identical white short-sleeved button-down shirts (with a long-sleeved one added in just in case it got cold). The trip hadn’t messed them up too badly, but Goro would need to iron them before wearing one. Just one bad wrinkle would drive him up the wall. The same went for his khakis (mostly tan to reflect the sun’s light instead of absorbing it like evil black sponges).

As he was neatly laying his folded underwear in the top-left drawer and praying that no one remarked on his one pair of black _Star Wars_ boxers, Akira joined him with an array of colorful socks and some other balled-up article. Goro paid him no mind, he instead focused on placing his own plain socks down in neat rows. One pair was lying at a slightly different angle and the disruption of uniformity was making Goro’s right eye twitch. He meticulously shifted all his socks so they all looked exactly the same. Thankfully, Akira did not question this, likely because he knew the answer to his question: his boyfriend was absolutely neurotic and probably completed all other vaguely-organizational tasks with the same militant perfectionism. 

Akira unraveled a pair of dark blue swim trunks and Goro was hit with the terrible realization that he didn’t pack any swimwear. He didn’t pack any swimwear for a week-long stay at a house directly on the beach. The beach where everyone wore swimwear because you go to the beach to swim.

For all his intellect, sometimes Goro wondered why he was so fucking stupid.

Upon noticing Goro’s staring, Akira grinned at him. “These are pretty nice, right? Nothing too special, but they’re comfortable.” He glanced down at Goro’s drawer and the insane amount of structure within it. “Is yours still in your suitcase?”

“Fuck.”

And that was how Goro ended up tagging along for a grocery shopping trip intended for only Niijima and Yoshizawa. He felt like a child that just broke something expensive — a description that could very well fit many other people in the vicinity in the near future, but not him — as he dragged his feet to go inform Niijima.

“My apologies for the intrusion, but I will need to accompany you as it appears that I don’t own a bathing suit. I can pay for it myself.”

Niijima narrowed her eyes at him. It seemed like she was searching him for weaknesses in case he tried to pull some sort of traitor bullshit again. Goro didn’t know why she would feel the need to though, his motivation for being such a two-faced bitch was gone and they already knew his weaknesses. Physically, she could absolutely snap his scrawny body in two with minimal exertion. Mentally... where would he even start? Perhaps with how easy it was to manipulate him by exploiting how starved of any positive attention he was, that was a big one. Oh, and bless attacks knocked him down when he was using Loki or Hereward.

Niijima’s response gave no indication as to whether she was actually thinking about any of that or not. “Needing clothes isn’t an intrusion.”

“Oh. Right. Okay.” The fridge was probably big enough to fit his body in it if he curled into a ball. He’d had plenty of practice trying to make himself smaller from lots of fun time alone with his thoughts.

Luckily for him, the only other person tagging along was Yoshizawa, so the car ride wouldn’t make his ears bleed. Apparently she had some big group recipes she wanted to test out on everyone, which even Goro’s shriveled little heart found exciting. Knowing how much the gymnast ate to keep up her stamina despite her rigorous training regiment, he had the utmost confidence in her cooking abilities. At the very least they’d be better than his own. Even his microwave meals sometimes came out a little tough and chewy around the edges. If he was asked to assist with meal preparations for any reason, hopefully it would merely involve finding things and measuring ingredients.

...Scratch that, maybe just finding things. Not that he would screw up measuring ingredients; in fact, the issue was quite the _opposite_. His measurements would be exact to a fault and his perfectionism would slow the process down to a snail’s pace. Someone would throw a bowl at his head for being so slow.

Just as Goro was leaving the house behind Niijima and Yoshizawa, another person’s body brushed past him. Akira turned around to blow him a kiss which startled a nervous chuckle out of him, at which Yoshizawa giggled with a hand over her mouth.

“I was going to leave shotgun open for you since you’re my senpai,” Yoshizawa said, “but now that Akira-senpai’s joining us, I assume you’d prefer to sit with him in the back.”

Akira opened the back door and motioned for Goro to get in. “I wasn’t planning on it, but then I realized I’d be missing out on my boyfriend modeling bathing suits and I’d be an idiot not to go.”

As Goro climbed into the back seat, he shot his rival a dirty look. Akira slid next to him and pressed a wet kiss on his cheek in response. Goro _really_ hoped neither of the girls in the front heard his embarrassing squeak over the engine starting up. Then, to his absolute horror and delight, Akira took the middle seat so there’d be no space between them. In the reflection of the front mirror, Goro saw Niijima sigh. 

Sitting there with his boyfriend very deliberately pressing their thighs together, Goro learned that Okumura’s suitcase hadn’t been for her clothes and toiletries at all. She had everything she could possibly need already waiting at the house. Her suitcase had been to house all of her vegetables so they could be used in various meals. And instead of an actual grocery list, Niijima was sent a picture of the suitcase as a guide on what they _shouldn’t_ buy because her produce would probably be better than the store-bought food anyway. Yoshizawa had a few recipes she was already considering, so she would be making sure they didn’t miss any of the atypical ingredients required for those.

After a drive that took about ten minutes, Niijima pulled into a parking spot in front of a large department store with the name “JUNES” written in big red letters on the front. The name rang a bell for a reason Goro couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it had to do with something he’d studied. There was no use lingering on it, so he simply followed the rest of their party through the sliding doors.

In the city, large stores always displayed their size vertically, with different departments taking up residence on different floors. In this store, everything was on one floor, with the tall ceilings used to hang signs indicating what each aisle or section contained. Some signs advertised a food court on the roof. It seemed that the food was on one side of the store, the electronics were on the other end, and everything else was somewhere in the middle. Good. That meant Niijima and Yoshizawa would not be present to watch Goro be repeatedly slaughtered by positive attention. The look in Akira’s eye indicated that his boyfriend had no intention of missing the chance to be the one giving it.

Ever the leader, Akira made a plan. “Once we all have what we need, we’ll reconvene by that display over there.” Akira pointed towards a display the store had clearly wanted to be the most noticeable thing upon entering. It had plushies and t-shirts and other items all featuring a red and blue bear character. Again, Goro felt that vague sense of familiarity. It was probably just him repressing something.

Niijima nodded. “Good idea. Make sure you both keep your phones on.”

Goro had made a habit of keeping his phone on since the only people who’d ever texted or called him had been Shido and Akira. For vastly different reasons, he could not miss either.

Yoshizawa offered one last cheeky “Good luck, senpais!” before following Niijima on the quest for nourishment.

Once it was just the two of them, Akira activated his lovable-little-shit mode.

“I think those Junes mascot swim trunks would be really nice on you.”

“Oh please.” Goro scoffed. “As if I’d want to be a walking corporate advertisement.”

Maybe the one exception would be if Okumura asked him to do so as penance. That’d give Futaba some good blackmail photos too.

The Junes trunks were only available in children’s sizes anyway, so they headed back to find the men’s swimwear. Fortunately, due to the mere size of the store, no one area was overly crowded (save perhaps some of the toy aisles). The racks of clothing were a bit close together, but all the other patrons were there to buy other things.

Given the tie at the waist, exact measurements weren’t so much of a concern as they were with Goro’s khakis. It was more of a question of whether he’d need a small or a medium.

He looked at the folded pairs of shorts and then at the ashen white mannequin sporting a black pair and nothing else. Whoever designed it must have been very horny given how much care was taken into sculpting those abs— it could’ve been mistaken for an underwear model. That just made Goro more nervous.

The female swimwear was across from them, displaying an array of different styles with varying levels of coverage. Some even had small skirts or shorts. Back in the men’s section, there was no such variety.

“Are there not any styles besides the basic trunks?” Goro asked.

Akira’s eyes widened in a way that Goro more closely associated with Sakamoto. “You want a _speedo_? I didn’t see that coming.”

Oh great, now Akira was blushing a little which was making Goro blush at least four times more.

“What?! _No_! Of course not!” Goro exclaimed a bit too loudly. He took out and unfolded a pair of red trunks, holding them up to his waist. “I was just hoping there might be something a little longer.”

“Nope. You’d have to order that online. It’s probably less aerodynamic or something.” 

While disappointing, this revelation could possibly give Goro something to do with the rest of his summer— besides the grueling task of starting to fix himself. He could hijack a college lab and figure out how to produce a pair of aerodynamic swim-khakis.

Soon after they entered the changing rooms, Akira seemed to pick up on what was going through his head. Or at least he was scratching the surface. With a few different pairs of swim trunks, Goro locked himself in one of the booths. Akira was sitting on a bench just outside, likely chuckling softly at something on his phone. 

Whoever designed the stall seemed to have done so with the intent on making the lighting as ugly as possible, Goro thought to himself. Under the harsh glow, all the shadows on his face were emphasized. Not even all his concealer could hide the clear signs of sleep deprivation. He wondered if this was a corporate ploy to get him to buy more makeup. He kind of wanted to, though he was reluctant to express that to Akira. Knowing his beloved rival, he’d probably be met with a spiel about how he was perfect the way he was and buying makeup for the beach was stupid anyway because it would all get washed off or blended in with sunscreen. 

As he started to unbutton his shirt, Goro thought that maybe he _wanted_ to hear that spiel. He certainly didn’t deserve it and he would hate himself later for being so blatantly selfish, but in the moment it might feel good.

The khakis were neatly folded and gingerly rested on the tiny plastic stool. Akira’s voice said from outside, “I just realized I’ve never seen your legs. Besides that time at the bathhouse.”

The light bulb hanging directly above Goro’s head was trying to melt him.

“I’m not particularly fond of leaving myself exposed to the elements,” Goro explained. “And watching your friends relentlessly itch their bug bites hasn’t exactly made it seem any more appealing to me.”

“Fair enough.” The shrug was nearly audible.

After tying the waist of the gray swim trunks, Goro turned to the mirror and examined himself. The blasting chill from the air conditioner seemed to blow straight through him, a theory which was only supported by his ghostly reflection.

On the third day of February, Goro had expected to finally end his continued burdensome existence on this earth. All that remained of him would be the memories of people who knew him. The public had already moved on, consumed by their own fantasies being actualized unnaturally. The Phantom Thieves would have likely remembered him a bit longer— how could they not with what Goro did— but he would fade with time as their lives went on.

For a month Goro had been fully prepared to die. He’d accepted it, welcomed it even. All his pains and scars would vanish, blown to oblivion. Perhaps he was not deserving of such mercy, but he wouldn’t know. He’d be gone.

Goro had never believed in the idea of heaven. As the day of his demise approached, Goro sometimes started to hope it didn’t exist, for if it did, his mother would certainly be waiting there, and he would not be deemed worthy of meeting her. Such a separation would be a deserved punishment though. Some son he’d turned out to be.

The dream world may have given him money to burn and more free time than he could ever want, but what was the point in using it? Turning a new leaf and succumbing to indulgence was fruitless when any progress made would disappear in an instant. He’d only needed to keep himself running long enough to take back reality.

Goro pinched himself. If he were trapped in the dream world, the stories and pain behind the scars in his torso would have been erased from existence. He was alive and in a shitty changing room where his cute little dissociative episode would remain a secret even to the security cameras. At least he hoped it would. If there were any cameras on he was going to rip them apart with his teeth.

When he spoke, his voice was completely devoid of the ferocity of that thought. “Akira?”

There was a beat before Akira responded. “Yes?”

“Get me some sort of shirt to wear with these,” Goro ordered tersely.

Soon after, two shirts were tossed over the door of his stall.

“I thought the blue one with the gray trunks would match your Metaverse costume. And the red kinda goes with the accents on those white shorts,” Akira explained.

The shirt and the accents of the shorts were just slightly different shades of red. Looking at it was making Goro’s eyes bleed. Maybe he should use his crimson tears to dye both articles the same fucking color. 

“Thank you.”

It seemed to Goro that Akira was expecting some sort of fashion show. Goro hadn’t the faintest idea where his rival had gotten that impression from, truthfully. Being in front of the camera wasn’t anything new. Showing off his appearance had been a regular occurrence in the days of the Detective Prince. But the photoshoots, TV interviews, blog posts, and newspaper covers never had any level of _exposure_. The masses had been subdued by a pleasant demeanor and a winning smile. None of the images on the internet revealed much more than a smart young man in a well-tailored uniform with a bright future ahead of him. Truthfully, Goro wasn’t even sure if the intelligence portion was rooted in reality. Sure, his deduction skills were not to be undermined and his academic prowess was legitimate, but what good had any of that been when he’d presented himself to Shido.

The gloved hand resting on the doorknob trembled. To some extent, Goro knew and could acknowledge that he was being ridiculous. Hell, Sakura Futaba was going to be wearing a bikini, and she hadn’t gone outside for how long? Months? A year or so?

It was just a swimsuit. Nothing to get his trunks in a bunch about.

When the door opened, Goro stared at the square centimeter of the wall directly above Akira’s head with laser focus. And then Akira stood up, forcing Goro to meet his eyes.

Akira smiled. “You look good,” he said, walking over to straighten Goro’s collar a bit. The back of Goro’s neck felt warm.

“I think it’s safe to assume the other one fits,” Goro murmured. “So I think we’re done here.” He turned around to shut himself in the changing room again when Akira grasped his arm.

“Goro,” Akira said, eyes intense like he was gearing up for battle. When his expression softened, that intensity remained. “You look _really_ good,” he repeated.

To be perceived for his true nature was to be exposed in all his ugliness— the very thing which had led to him being discarded time after time. With each instance where he was tossed aside, the neglect fostered more insecurity, more built-up imperfections and accumulating undesirability. 

To have those perceptions of the self contradicted not once but _twice_ was to be jolted awake. An electric shock can hardly have a lasting effect through layers upon layers of rubber but it is a sensation in a place of numbness. 

The fuzzy feeling retreated once Goro was boxed in by three walls and a mirror again, but for a few blissful seconds, he almost believed that Akira was right. 

Thanks to the copious amount of money that was likely put into its construction, the rooms in Okumura’s house avoided any concerns Goro had about feeling cramped in a space with another person. The double sink left enough space between them that Goro didn’t need to be conscious of accidentally piercing Akira with his meatless elbows.

He almost wanted Akira to lean over and nudge him just so he could feel something.

Goro’s wish ended up coming true, albeit in a gentler way. While he was lathering his face in moisturizer, Akira wrapped his arms around Goro’s torso and rested his chin on his shoulder. Feathery dark hair tickled his neck and cheek. He found he didn’t mind it though.

After washing the extra cream off of his hands, Goro leaned in so their heads were touching. “It can’t be comfortable to stay slouched like that,” Goro said as he stared at their reflections.

Akira turned his head so that his breath was hot on Goro’s face when he spoke. “But I like you.”

“I understand that much.” They both knew Goro didn’t. “But surely this is not the ideal position.”

In the mirror, Goro saw Akira raise an eyebrow. “Are you saying you wanna cuddle?”

Nope. Goro was not particularly in the mood for getting overwhelmed and being reduced to a pathetic trembling child in Akira’s arms. These walls were thin and if anyone in this house heard him crying he was going to start collecting his tears in a bucket so he could drown in them.

“Perhaps another day.”

Akira nodded. “Welp. I know the best way to make a day come faster.” He stood up straight and released Goro. “Going to sleep. Goodnight, honey.” Akira kissed Goro’s cheek and left the bathroom.

Ten minutes of applying hair product later, Goro found himself in a bed far comfier than his own. In his own apartment, he would study all the imperfections in the ceiling until he passed out. Then he usually woke up from a terrible nightmare and did it all over again once he was able to breathe.

Goro dreamed of a garden, ripe with life and full of color. There were flowers he’d never seen outside of photographs, plants that didn’t grow normally in Japan. He crouched down next to them to get a closer look. His hand hovered above delicate petals, gently lowering to feel their softness. Just as his fingertips brushed them, they withered before his very eyes.

He yanked his hand back immediately to stop himself from doing more damage. Then something wet sprayed the back of his head. He whipped around to see what it was.

“Oh! My apologies, Akechi-kun!” Okumura said with a wince. “I didn’t notice you down there!” She turned over the bottle in her hands and read over the text. “I don’t _think_ weedkiller does anything to humans,” she murmured.

“I-It’s alright, Okumura-san.” The flower he’d touched was wilted and petalless. The plants surrounding it were dried up at the tips.

“You were just protecting life from a destructive force.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments make my day, so if you enjoyed this please let me know! And if you want to hear me rant about Goro, go follow me [on twitter!](https://twitter.com/3muske_tears?lang=en)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't know what my update schedule will be like with classes starting up, but I have lots of plans and I do not intend to abandon them.
> 
> Kudos are highly appreciated, and while I don't always respond to comments they always brighten my day :)
> 
> Follow me on twitter [right here](https://twitter.com/3muske_tears?lang=en) for a lot of me gushing about Goro Akechi and to be notified whenever I update


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